


We're Living Underground

by Prosodi



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prosodi/pseuds/Prosodi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two times and two perspectives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Living Underground

**Nixon.**

Nixon has this idea in his head that Dick Winters is going to need hand holding through the first time because he’s seen how the man is in billet and how he is with women. He figures that if Winters isn’t a virgin, he at least is no Casanova; Winters is so quiet and controlled, Nixon’s sure he’ll be able to get him to make noises - that he’ll have to tell him what to do in a voice that is low and slow and soft. Not that he thinks about it much, or maybe all the time. So he's surprised when he closes Dick's footlocker and lurches up, hips creaking from the chilly air, and turning with the intent to say something he finds Dick is there. Right there. Nixon doesn't know if Dick stepped closer or if, when he got up, he swayed into Dick's space, but--

Well. There it is. Dick has his arms at his sides. They do not hang loose. The line of his shoulders is quiet, stiff, just like the line of his mouth.  
Nixon says, "Well I'll get out of your hair," and Dick says "Alright," and Nixon doesn't know what his eyes are saying because he realizes he's watching Dick's mouth. There's an edge of teeth there visible behind his lower lip.

When Dick kisses him it's sturdy and is like a hot knife driven under his rib cage. It leaves him short of breath and gasping. Dick's teeth scrape against his mouth. His face is soft, clean shaven. Nixon makes a low noise and, when Dick pushes him back, Nixon trips over the foot locker and staggers into the bed completely gracelessly. He has enough time to rip open his jacket before Dick comes down on top of him. There is an economy to the way Dick moves -- pulling open buttons as he straddles Nixon's waist. Nixon, splayed across the mattress and his hands uselessly struggling with his clothes, can hear how hard his breathing is as Dick Winters strips him of his jacket, his shirt, hikes up his under shirt with one motion: palm sliding flat up under the fabric, cool on his chest and heavy. The heel of his hand presses rhythmically just below Nixon's collar bone, fingers splayed across the base of his neck.

Nixon says, "Jesus Christ" and then "Dick" and honestly doesn't know what to do with himself until he catches Dick's eye. It earns him a tense smile, lips not quite pursed. There's a cold intensity in the way Dick looks at him. Dick presses heavy on his neck. Nixon can feel his lower lip start to tremble. He tears at Dick's belt. "Take this off," he says. Dick pauses, then evenly says "Okay" and does; he shrugs out of his jacket and hikes his shirt over his head, which musses his hair. He moves off, unlacing his boots. Nixon grunts and hikes up his leg without sitting up, working open the laces of his own shoe.

He's still yanking on the second boot when Dick rolls back over him, taking advantage of the angle of his leg so he can settle there, against him, half out of his pants. Dick kisses him again and then doesn't stop. Nixon can feel the hard line of his erection pressing against his thigh. It makes getting his shoe off unbelievably fucking difficult. Eventually he gives up and instead just pulls on Dick's hair and breathes ragged through his nose and grasps at his shoulder until Dick catches him by the hips and hitches him up. Nixon doesn't need the encouragement - wraps his legs around him and drives the heel of his boot into the small of Dick's back. Through their pants, they rock against each other. Grasping. Dick keeps shifting, re-evaluating, sliding his hands and tugging him closer. Nixon can't see straight, can barely make out the fine hair at Dick's temple, is aware that he's probably hurting him with his shoe but Dick just keeps pressing against him with short, purposeful jerks of his hips. His mouth is hot. His hand is there, slides down between them and fumbles with Nixon's fly and eventually presses the heat of both their cocks together in one goddamn capable hand.

"Is this alright?" he asks and Nixon starts to make this horrible, fucked out noise like a cat in heat before Dick crushes his mouth on his. Kisses the breath out of him and then says, low and slow and soft, "You've got to be quiet, Lew."

 

**Winters.**

The fact is that at Bastogne it was too cold to think about anything beyond exactly how cold it was, to grasp tin cups and gulp down steaming lukewarm coffee before it froze solid. Every morning, Winters got up and he stamped around in his boots and tried to shake the feeling back into his extremities. He didn’t think about frostbite or trench foot except to consider the inevitability of the men getting either. Sometimes he didn’t realize how long it had been since he slept until his jaw started to feel prickly, reminding him to shave. There was plenty to do but he tried to make sure he didn’t slip up, make sure that he doesn’t forgo rest entirely. That kind of thing could be just as detrimental. Over maps and stale, hard bread for breakfast, Nixon's voice sounded slurred when he talked about the enemy line. Winter couldn’t tell if it was the cold seizing up Nix’s tongue or the smell of liquor on him, sharp in the bitter weather. He was too frozen to worry; he kept his fingers jammed into his armpits and his jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering. Being that cold made it easy to forget things.

But eventually they work their way out of the Alps and into bombed out villages and towns, which are miserable but at least there are walls of stone or wood instead of holes in the ground. There are sometimes beds and fireplaces, though they don't start fires in them and instead burn things in the yards or on brick floors where the smoke can either dissipate in the air before it rises too high or stain the ceiling instead of marking their positions by the plume from any one chimney. There's plenty of paperwork and shells screams overhead at regular intervals, but his hands aren't swollen from the cold anymore. Nixon gives him the news from battalion HQ and then, before he goes, says, "It's going to be cold tonight." He throws a look in his direction. Winters doesn't catch it, but cocks his head like he can hear the sound. He breathes through his mouth, lips parted faintly. He's a little surprised despite himself and for none of the right reasons. He just sometimes forgets. The oppressive wasteland of this country and the logistics of keeping everything together, of desperately trying to keep the limbs of Easy from getting blown off, shot to pieces-- it takes up his attention. Nixon's subterfuge would surprise anyone at that stage.

There's no place to go, not really - at least Winters doesn't think so, but trust Lewis Nixon to find the one stone unturned in that ruined place. Winters admires him for that-- the man's innate sense for untried loopholes. He doesn't always approve of his methods, but the results are solid. Turning a blind eye to this is especially easy, because Nixon doesn't need to make many excuses. He just says he found a cellar and Winters thinks they need more space for the men anyway, that they already have boys practically sleeping on top of each other, and that it wouldn't hurt to take a look and see if it's a something that could likely serve as additional temporary barracks. Nixon expresses some doubt about the support beams. It’s enough cause to inspect it personally.

The ground of the cellar is hard and dusty, the floor stones cracked. There are a few muddy places where the floor's come up and the damp has leeched in, but it's not terrible and the structure above it is so ripped to pieces that no one would bother shelling here - which explains why they didn't realize the cellar was there in the first place. Nixon swears quietly as he burns his fingers on a pack of matches, hiking the lamp up to see better. Winters knocks on a few beams. Nixon makes a tired joke about bringing the place down around their ears. Winters gives him a sideways look and smiles tightly, a wordless acknowledgment of how limping Nixon’s humor is at that hour. In the lamp light, the shadows cast under Nixon's dark eyes are heavy. They make him look gaunt and overly pale. Winters steadies himself with a hand on the low ceiling.

Nixon puts the lamp down on the floor. The light sways erratically and outlines his legs more than the rest of him, catches on his fingers and the edge of his heavy coat. It's mostly dark, too dark to see well by, so Winters stays stock still until Nixon steps into his space. Nixon doesn't catch his jacket or hip, just presses his knuckles firmly against Winters's chest, like the length of his arm is some imprecise way of measuring the distance between them: from Nixon's knuckles to his elbow. Nix's breath sounds low and even. He sways slightly closer, mouth a paltry distance away. After a moment Dick catches his wrist. His grip is heavy and clumsy with gloves on. He feels up the line of Nixon's arm, to his elbow. Gets a handhold of the man's jacket and then finally turns and breathes against Nixon's mouth. Nixon makes a soft noise. The tip of his nose is freezing cold. Dick tugs him closer and Nix's arm collapses between them. Dick kisses him, mouth hardly open but enough for Nix to take advantage of, tongue probing at his lower lip, the edge of his teeth. Dick doesn't know if it's the cold or the fact that it hasn't been like this in weeks, but they're both sluggish and clumsy. It takes an embarrassingly long time for them to get his pants open, both of them struggling at it; Dick fumbles at his belt. Nix pulls at the buttons on Dick's gear, make a low noise of frustration and swears, hot and dangerous against Dick's mouth.

With his pants open, the cold leaches in and sink low in his abdomen. It takes a few seconds too long before Nix, fumbling to rip off his glove, manages to slide his hand down into Dick's pants. No pretenses: just pushes in under the elastic band of his briefs and closes his hand around him. His hands are chilly. Everything is cold. Dick shudders and his hips shift, not entirely sure whether to flinch away or push into the contact. Nix just grasps at him, stroking lazily with his cool fingers while his other hand grips at Dick's scarf, fingers tangled in the scratchy knit and tugging. Dick realizes he has him by the arms, constricting him, but doesn't know how to stop even though it means the pull of Nix's fingers is shallow and slightly ungainly, and that there's just enough room between them that the air still feels bitter.

"You're freezing," Dick tries to say and Nixon snorts, talks against his mouth as he says, "Really? I hadn't noticed." He shrugs out of Dick's hands, sways back slightly. It's hard to tell in the mostly dark, but his mouth looks swollen and thick from kissing, lips quirking like he doesn't know what to do with them. Dick touches ineffectually at his elbows, his arm. The hand on him has stilled. For a few seconds Nixon studies him and Winters doesn't know what to do except look back at him, dark and quiet. Somewhere overhead there is a low hissing noise of a shell passing overhead, a crack as it bursts in the air. Neither of them flinch, though Dick feels his focus narrow to a point. The line of his mouth collapses as he looks at Nixon. And then Nix's eyebrows quirk. He makes this face like he's lost a bet and doesn't really care. He shrugs his shoulders minutely and then dismissively says, "If my knees lock, I'm counting on you."

He stiffly drops down, his hand knotting right there behind Dick's knee. Pressing. Dick catches the low wooden beam directly overhead and hangs on. He stares at his own fingers, gloved, and doesn't look down. Not even when Nixon mouths against the very top of his thigh or when he takes him into his mouth, half hard. Dick breathes out, chest hitches. The air tastes sharp. Nixon's mouth is unbearably hot. Dick smothers his mouth against his arm and breathes hard through his nose, jaw clenched.

Nix isn't bad at this and the sturdiness of his hand on Dick's leg is good too because his knees want to buckle, though he honestly thinks it's from the warmth more than anything else. He can feel sweat prickling under his collar and he feels lightheaded, more so because Nixon - Oh, oh - makes this low growling noise when his hips tilt into the strangling heat of his mouth. Dick thinks about fumbling down, touching himself where Nix can't reach, but changes his mind. His hands are cold, he's still wearing gloves, and anyway the thought alone is enough to make his skin prickle. Dick doesn't realize he's chewing his lip until he tastes the blood. Nix bobs down on him. The hot metal taste in Dick's mouth drives a moan out of him. Nixon does something with his tongue, swallows him down, and when he comes Dick cries out raw, hardly muffled against his arm.

One of his knees gives. Nix's hand fists in his pants and, pushing, keeps him from tilting too dangerously. Dick can feel a twitching low in his abdomen, cock pulsing with the vestiges of orgasm. He looks down finally, in time to see Nix pull off. His mouth is shiny with spit and he's breathing hard. Dick's chest aches and his breathing stutters painfully. He wants to say Lew’s name, but stumbles. Instead he croaks unintelligibly as Nix responsibly puts him away and does up his pants. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and it looks -- it looks obscene. A moment later Nix uses the same hand to wrestle open his pants and touch himself, squeezing roughly at his erection. Dick watches, mouth dry and legs trembling. He tries not to lock his knees. Nix makes a series of short panting noises before pressing his face against Dick's thigh, pressing his forehead against the hard line of muscle through the too-thin uniform pants. He says, "Christ," and then "Fuck," and finally after a half formed litany of other vulgarity he grumbles Dick's name repeatedly against his leg and comes into his fist.

He makes a low noise as he comes down from it and then laughs, panting and rasping. He senselessly head butts Dick's leg, all coordination shot to hell. Dick's leg gives out. He sags to the ground, one leg folded under himself the other tangled against Nix's side. They sit on the hard floor of that cellar, panting in the dark and not quite leaning against each other. Nixon lets his head tilt back, breathes hard. The light paints a sharp orange streak along his jaw. Dick fumbles for him, touches his neck, but doesn't kiss him. Their legs are tangled, but he holds Nix at a distance.

After a moment Nix drops his chin and leans heavy against his fingers. Dick's thumb presses rough under his jaw. Nix smiles, or tries - his mouth hangs open and he pants out an erratic laugh. "Well, I don't think the roof's coming down any time soon," he says.

Dick snorts and looks away for a second. He scrubs his face with his other hand. The palm of his glove is soft. He turns his hand over to dab at his bleeding lip with the grubby cuff of his sleeve. He looks back and finds Nixon still staring. "Probably not."


End file.
